Cold Light of Dawn
by GoGirl212
Summary: The boys regroup after an epic fight. A drabble for a lazy Saturday morning.


**The Cold Light of Dawn**

It started with a distant dull pounding, like someone outside was driving in a fence post. He tried to ignore it, to slip back into the black oblivion of nothing, but it persisted. It pulled at him. Pounding, unrelenting. His mind began to surface then, to cling to the sound like a lifeline out of a chasm. It didn't so much grow louder, but rather Athos began to feel it, rhythmically beating against his temples. It wasn't a fence post, it was a throbbing pain in his head. He rolled his head to the side to try and get rid of it but that was a mistake. The throbbing intensified and a small moan escaped from between his dry, cracked lips. He was afraid to open his eyes.

His soldier's instincts kicked in then and he laid still and began to take stock of his body. He could move his hands and his left arm, but his right arm was pinned under his back and now he noticed a definite ache in his left shoulder. He could move his feet and slowly bent his legs. A searing pain stabbed into his right knee, the one that had troubled him since being caught in the explosion under the Louvre. Some new injury had aggravated it. The pain provoked another moan but also served to wrench him fully into consciousness. He struggled to sit up but something laid heavy across his chest and his head swam violently as soon as he moved it. He still didn't want to open his eyes, but now had no choice. He cracked them open and squinted against the light.

The light made the throbbing worse, but he had to figure out where he was, what was holding him down. He raised left arm and knocked into something cool and hard that tipped to the floor with a hollow ring. _An empty bottle?_ He wasn't sure, but he wasted little thought on it as he probed further to find what pinned him to the ground. His hand encountered a rock covered in leather. _No, that's not right_ , he thought. He continued to investigate, his hand moving along the leather rock until it encountered something recognizable – a shoulder. Athos's eyes followed his hand and tried to focus. He could see a fleur-de-lys etched in leather and dark curls spreading behind it. _Porthos. Porthos was on top of him_.

He pushed ineffectually at Porthos's pauldron. No response. He leaned and stretched his hand further, to reach the back of Porthos's head. That was a mistake, as his own head swam and his stomach turned. Still, he got his hand on Porthos's head and gently patted, or maybe not so gently, he wasn't really in full control of his limbs just yet. The body on top of him heaved a mighty sigh, but showed no sign of moving.

"Porthos," Athos's dry whisper felt too loud in his own ears, "Porthos!" he whispered more urgently, tapping his hand again against the curly head. He was rewarded with a garbled moan, but felt the big man shift on top of him. The moan became words. " _What . . .wait . . . oooww_ ," well almost words. "Porthos!" he breathed urgently, "you're crushing me."

This seemed to register and he felt the mountain on top of him shift. There was an awful moment when the weight seemed to get heavier and Athos thought his ribs might crack but then the giant was hovering on all fours above him before pushing back with his powerful arms to sit on his haunches by Athos's side. He looked up at him, dried blood caked into his hair line. "You, Ok?" Athos asked quietly.

Porthos raked his hand through his hair, wincing when he found a tender spot, probably the source of the blood. He screwed up his face and cracked his jaw. He opened his eyes to a small slit and nodded slightly. Yes.

"You?" Porthos asked, reaching down to help Athos to a sitting position. Athos was grateful for the strong arm. His head was spinning and his vision blurred and he would have slipped back to the ground if not for the support of his friend but he nodded as well that he was alright. His mouth was dry and his throat raw, but as he tried to find his canteen, he remembered he had left it on his horse.

Porthos did a quick check and was relieved to find purse, pistols and blades all in place, but winced when he reached back to feel for his main gauche. _Dislocated shoulder?_ He grunted to himself thinking of the small torture he would endure yet again when Aramis popped it back in place. He spared a glance to Athos. "You're not looking so good," he observed quietly between clenched teeth.

"I'll live," Athos answered, "we have to find the others." Athos looked around the wrecked room. Overturned tables, splintered chairs, shattered glass. He couldn't quite piece together the details, but clearly it had been epic. Porthos dragged himself to his feet and reached down to haul Athos up to a standing position. That about did Athos in as his knee buckled and shot searing knives of pain up his leg. Porthos steadied him, holding him upright.

"No you don't, brother," Porthos whispered with a grim smile, "I'm not carrying you out of here."

Athos leaned against his friend, thankful for not the first time that Porthos was a rock, an anchor in even the worst of situations. Athos felt the shooting pain in his leg subside, and he slowly withdrew from the pillar that was Porthos to stand on his own. His friend still had a grip on his shoulder. He raised his arm and gave the big hand a squeeze to say _I'm good._ They exchanged a look and a nod, and as quietly as possible picked their way through the debris to search for the others.

There was an unnatural stillness in the air and Athos noted that it was often like this the dawn after a big battle. As if all of the noise, violence and carnage were driven out by the sunrise. The low angled morning light cast unusual shadows across the shattered landscape of the broken room. It was hard to distinguish shapes and Athos found that his head now pounded in time with the halting steps he was taking across the room. He was favoring his knee, but he felt too that maybe Porthos had in fact cracked a rib when he had lain on top of him as his chest felt tender with each breath.

There was a creak from above them and both men had their hands on their blades in an instant. They looked up toward the sound to see Aramis half falling out of an open doorway on the second level, the balcony rail luckily preventing him from making an immediate descent down to his friends. He was disheveled, his doublet and shirt undone and his sword and belt dangled from his left hand.

Athos and Porthos relaxed their hands from their weapons, but looked earnestly at their companion trying to assess his condition from a level below. Aramis took note of them and nodded, signaling he was alright, but as they watched him make his way along the balcony toward the staircase they could see he was in not much better shape than they were. Porthos shambled to wait at the bottom of the staircase as Aramis made his way down. He was walking stiffly with one arm wrapped around his torso. _Ribs_ Athos noted to himself. The more he looked at his men, the worse everyone seemed to be.

Aramis paused at the bottom step. "Hold this," he said to Porthos, shoving his sword in belt into the large man's hands. He began to pull closed his shirt, wincing at a sudden and unexpected pain. Despite his swimming head, Athos made it to Aramis's side in three strides.

"Let me see that," he said, grabbing hold of Aramis's open shirt. The man's chest was scratched, with long angry welts streaking across his torso. "My God," Athos breathed and looked up at his friend incredulously, "how did that happen?"

Aramis closed his eyes, trying to force his recollection. "It's fuzzy," he said, his words like sighs, "but I was caught off guard. There were two of them, didn't expect that . . ." his voice trailed off as his mind searched for the rest of the memory, a wicked smile playing across his face. "They attacked me . . . hell cats . . ." he snorted at the memory. "Don't worry, friend," he opened his eyes and looked down at Athos with a cocky smile, "I won in the end." He clapped Athos on the cheek and brushed away the hand still clinging to the front of his shirt, "It's not as bad as it looks," he reassured his friends. "Where's the boy?" he asked, changing the subject as he laced up his shirt and looking around for their fourth.

"We're still looking for him," Athos answered coolly. He did not want to let Aramis put him off so easily about what happened to him last night, but he was right, they needed to find D'Artagnan and get out of there. It was too quiet and Athos was starting to get a bad feeling.

Porthos handed Aramis his belt and sword and resumed his journey through the wreckage of the room. It looked like a bomb had gone off, but Porthos knew the only explosion had been a fury of fists. He found a body curled on its side behind an overturned table, but the tow headed boy was not the one they were seeking. He looked small and vulnerable though, so much like their young friend when he was sleeping or wounded that Porthos leaned down to press his fingers lightly against the lad's neck looking for a pulse. Satisfied he was still with the living, he stood and resumed his search, not envying the hell he'd pay when that lad woke up. Aramis buckled his sword belt back in place and made to head back upstairs to continue looking when they all caught the sound of soft moaning. They paused in their steps, listening intently. There again it was, but distant, and muffled.

Aramis took a few steps upstairs, but as the moaning continued it became clear it wasn't above them.

"Is there a cellar?" Athos whispered. They looked around and Porthos noticed a small door to the side of the large stone fireplace. Currently the most mobile of the threesome, he had the door open and was down the stairs before the other pair had made it across the room. Athos raised a hand to his aching head and swayed on his feet. Aramis put a hand to his friend's back to steady him, but then his own head tipped forward to rest on Athos's shoulder. He was spent and his only wish was to find D'Artagnan and get out of here before any more trouble found them. He felt lucky to have survived the night.

"I've got 'im," Porthos called out quietly from below and then his heavy footfalls sounded on the stairs. He emerged with a limp D'Artagnan slung over his good shoulder, arms and head dangling. Athos lightly pushed Aramis toward the pair and he watched them get him to the ground. The boy's face was pale, his shirt soaked in red and he moaned again as they stretched him out.

Aramis ripped open the boy's shirt, looking for a chest wound, but found nothing but smooth, untouched skin. He pulled the shirt closed and leaned closer. "It's not all blood, it's mostly wine," Aramis whispered with relief. He felt the boy's head and found a nasty lump still sticky with blood. "I need a bandage for this though," he said, and then continued to lightly run his hands down D'Artagnan's body looking for other signs of injury. He noticed the boy's left wrist looked swollen, and when he moved it D'Artagnan moaned again but still didn't quite regain consciousness. "And a splint for this wrist," he added.

"Porthos," Athos said, "can you carry him to the stable? I think we need to get out of here before anyone else turns up."

"Yeah," Porthos answered, "I'm not ready for another fight – at least not with you looking like that," he quipped, sweeping his glance over his leader from head to toe. Athos snorted in derision and made his way to the door, trying not to add fuel to conversation by limping.

Porthos bent and lifted 'DArtagnan over his back again, grunting in pain as the motion aggravated his abused shoulder. Aramis paused him with a hand to his chest and looked pointedly into his comrade's eyes. "It's nothing," Porthos muttered and shrugged off the question, not having the fortitude just yet to face the cure. Aramis let him walk off with the boy, but made a mental note that he would have to deal with the big man later.

The musketeers paused long enough to check that no one was around to notice their departure and made their way hastily to the stable. While Athos and Porthos saddled the horses, Aramis cleaned and bandaged D'Artagnan's head and went about splinting the boy's wrist. It was during that process that D'Artagnan awoke with a start, his eyes registering confusion and fear.

"Easy now, easy," Aramis was quick to soothe him, stopping his work on the wrist to put a hand on the back of D'Artagnan's neck and give it a reassuring squeeze. "You're ok," he said, peering into the boy's eyes. He watched the confusion be replaced with recognition and D'Artagnan smiled painfully.

"My head . . . " he sighed.

"I know," Aramis answered sympathetically, "And I think you broke your wrist too. Do you remember what happened?"

"I think I fell down the stairs," he answered sheepishly.

Aramis worked to suppress a laugh but his eyes twinkled. Clearly the boy wished he had a better story to tell. He finished up tying the splint just as angry voices began to rise from across the courtyard.

"Time's up," Athos said, "we need to leave. Can he ride?"

"Yes, I can ride, D 'Artagnan answered defensively even though the question had not been directly addressed to him.

"The better question is can _you_ ride," Aramis said, standing to look Athos in the eye.

"Just get on your horse," Athos responded stonily. Despite Athos's icy look, Aramis companionably gave him a leg up to mount. Athos could not honestly say he wasn't grateful. Porthos gave D'Artagnan a hand up from the ground and clapped him on the back.

"A battle wound is a battle wound," he said with an affectionate smile, "no matter how you got it." The men checked their tack and mounted up. They arranged themselves in pairs to ride out of the barn. Athos twisted in his saddle to look back toward Porthos and Aramis behind him.

"We're going to ride out of here hard and not stop 'til we get back to Paris," he said, "I want to be through the village gate before anyone has enough time to see anything but the back ends of our horses." The two men nodded their affirmation and tightened their grip on their reins.

"And _you,"_ Athos continued, leaning across his horse to take hold of D'Artagnan's doublet and pulling him so close so that they were nearly nose to nose, " _you_ are never, never, NEVER picking the bar again. Let's go."

# fin #


End file.
